


Geralt Damacy

by Fluxx



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, 塊魂 | Katamari Damacy
Genre: Bringing People Together, Creative Interpretations Of Common Tags, Crossover, End of the World, Ensemble - Freeform, Everything Turns Out Fine, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Geralt Accepts Destiny, Geralt Must Fix The Continent, Poor Life Choices, Road Trips, Social Gatherings, The Author Regrets Nothing, The King of All Cosmos Can't Be Fucked, monster hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:53:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26657716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluxx/pseuds/Fluxx
Summary: When The King of All Cosmos beckons, you answer.Even if you're a world-wearied Witcher who probably should have retired decades ago.Featuring art by the wonderfulblinkingkills(tumblr), and beta'd by the amazingrevealing(tumblr)!Track#Fluxx Ficsontumblror follow@SirenFluxx on twitterfor more fics!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia &; The Katamari
Comments: 24
Kudos: 9
Collections: Witcher Big Bang





	1. Geralt Damacy (cover)

**Author's Note:**

> For screen readers: Each chapter begins with a series of stylistic special character sequences, book-ended by a —.


	2. Once Upon A Star

— ⬟ —

“No.”

“Yen—”

“NO!”

“Come on, Yen!” Geralt protested, arms spread in exasperation. “You haven’t even considered it!”

A fire lit in her already vibrant eyes. “See, that’s just it, Geralt,” she hissed, jabbing a sharp finger in his face. “I _have_ considered it. It’s just that I’ve decided _against_ you, and for some reason you find that ground enough to invalidate it!”

“But I need your help, Yen!” he groaned, hoping to appeal to the powerful witch’s charity. “ _Jaskier_ needs your help!”

“I don’t give two shits about Jaskier!” she shrieked. She threw a gesture to him and out her open door. “ _You_ don’t give two shits about Jaskier!”

Geralt glowered at her. “I give _one_ shit.”

“Yeah?” Yennefer scoffed, hardly believing they were even having this conversation. “Did his singin’ coax it out of ya?”

“You two know I can hear you?”

“ _Shut up!_ ” they yelled, united for the first time this whole encounter.

“Look,” she sighed, rubbing the bridge of her temple, “I’m not getting involved in this one.”

“I’ll pay you,” Geralt bargained. “You know I’m good for it.”

“Payment’s not the problem!” she countered. “Even if I wanted to help - which I _don’t_ \- I wouldn’t even know where to start! This isn’t like anything—”

“You’re the greatest witch across the continent!” Geralt insisted. If not bribery or charity, then perhaps flattery would work? “If _anyone_ can figure something out, it’d be you.”

“The answer’s ‘no,’ Geralt!” To prove her point, she pushed past him and stormed out the door.

Jaskier, for perhaps the first time in life, brightened when he saw her. “Ah, hello there, Great Yennefer of—” He immediately cut off when he realized what she was doing. He paled, violently shaking his head in fervent warning. “Yen! Wait! No - _no_!”

But she paid him no mind, nor the Witcher yelling behind her. Her foot drew back. She swung it forward with all her force. Her boot met its mark.

Yennefer joined the katamari.


	3. Lonely Rolling Geralt

— ▣╼◠╼▣◞ ⬟ —

It was a normal enough morning, rising after a normal enough night - bland enough that Geralt didn’t really bother reminiscing on too many of the specifics, content to let it blend with the myriad previous nights exactly like it. Some tavern in some town on the edge of some kingdom until-recently-plagued by some monster.

On second take, fully dressed and grumbling outside his room’s door, perhaps it wasn’t _quite_ so regular. His eyes narrowed curiously at the neighboring room, its door still shut, its interior fully still, and its serenity disturbed only by the heavy snoring of a single, lone occupant. It would seem Geralt had happened upon a rare stroke of luck - he had actually woken _before_ that damned bard for once! Perhaps, if he hurried, he could sneak off before Jaskier took notice… ?

Not that he imagined he’d get very far anyhow. Over the years, Jaskier had proven to be particularly pertinacious in his presence along Geralt’s travels. It got to be something of a game between the two of them, with Geralt coming up with new, inventive ways of giving Jaskier the slip and Jaskier finding increasingly startling ways of resurfacing along his path. Geralt might even have taken a slight fondness to the cat-and-mouse… if anyone could ever get him to admit it, anyhow.

On this particular morning, it left him somewhat suspicious, wondering if Jaskier had simply been pretending to sleep to lure him into a false sense of security. Whether that was the case or not, Geralt intended to take full advantage of it. He located and prepared Roach in record time, and was soon gently guiding her by the reins around the back of the inn and between the town’s various small shops and houses, secreting them to the town’s edge and back upon the main dirt road as swiftly as possible.

At that point, he expected one of a number of things to happen.

Most likely, Geralt would enjoy perhaps a few hours’ peace and quiet before the telltale squawking and twanging of his personal oversized parakeet came drifting over the horizon. More often than not, it’d be carried to him by some well-meaning travelling merchant, and he’d begrudgingly accept the proffered deposit if only because he felt guilty subjecting the kind stranger to even more of the loud, ceaseless antics.

Some kind of attack - sentient, bestial, or otherwise - took second place. Either Geralt would happen upon a monster he couldn’t help but quell, or he’d be attacked by one, or a band of raiders would have the misfortune of targeting him, or the distant, shrill shrieking of his name far in the distance would betray that either of those had attacked his unwitting fellow. The first few of those possibilities tended to delay him _just enough_ for the distance he’d gained to be eaten up, and he’d resurface from the scuffle to a high-pitched trilling he’d been sharply informed on a number of occasions was called a “tremolo.” The latter misfortunes saw Geralt taking a few moments to weigh the pros and cons of playing the hero, even though he ultimately _always_ ended up guilting himself into back-tracking all the way to the source of the commotion, swinging around his shiny pointy blade a bit, and then resuming his journey with a rejuvenated and tragically reinspired soundtrack.

The third and rarest possibility was that Geralt, by some stroke of luck or miracle, would make it all the way to the next town. Maybe he’d even treat himself to a silent meal, and get so far as securing himself a room. He’d take the opportunity to hire an evening escort, if he was feeling up to it, then settle into bed, knowing full well a musical rooster would herald the oncoming morning.

What he absolutely did not expect by _any_ stretch of the imagination was to be descended upon by a hulking, blue-and-purple-clad colossus the size of a… no, the size of _two_ castles, he was sure. This thing, whatever it was, looked well enough like a human, but of course that was impossible. The sheer size of him was evidence enough of that, but furthermore his crisply goateed face was a dark, ashen grey. No mortal would’ve been caught dead with his bizarre and extravagant attire either - no, Geralt felt certain not even Jaskier would brave skin-tight purple tights below an equally skin-tight teal shirt and decorated with gold chains, bracelets, and a double-banded belt. As if that weren’t enough to declare his lofty flamboyance, a giant, white ruff ringed his neck, from which a gloriously teal-and-purple cloak flowed. But what was _most_ bizarre, even above all of that, were the absurdly huge cylinders adjoined to either side of his head, more colorfully and intricately decorated than the world’s most complicated stained glass mosaics.

Oh, and a crown perched daintily atop his head. Flat, smooth, golden. A disturbingly simple contrast beside… well, the entire _rest_ of the strange entity.

“…You broke it.”

Geralt nearly fell off Roach’s back, so startled he was from the sudden, booming voice. He recovered - barely - through a firm hug of her neck, righting himself upon her saddle and regaining mental presence enough to yell up at the thing, filled with incredulous, and perhaps just a wee bit offended, defiance. “What?!”

“Hmm,” the thing’s murmur rumbled as he rubbed his chin. He completely ignored Geralt’s question. Indeed, Geralt suspected he wasn’t _actually_ thinking about much of anything at all, despite the gesture. “We could fix it. But…”

“Fix _what_?” Geralt bellowed. He fast lost patience, resolving to dismount from Roach and draw his sword. Not that he had the faintest indication it’d have any meaningful effect upon the towering being. “Who are you?! Explain yourself!”

“…That sounds like work.” He’d yet to so much as glance in Geralt’s general direction, so it was impossible to say for sure just which “that” he was talking about. Both, probably. “We’re tired. Yes. So much fun! We need our beauty sleep now. Naughtiness is tiring.”

Geralt glanced around. He didn’t have time for this insanity. Maybe he could ignore it, just keep walking and going about his day without paying it any mind? He couldn’t see the thing’s feet, frustratingly hidden beyond the next hill’s crest, but he suspected he was blocking the road ahead. He could backtrack, probably - he’d lose some time, but certainly far less than he’d lose if—

“You fix it.”

He did a double-take, baffled out of his mind at what he was hearing. “Oh, so you _do_ acknowledge me?!” he scoffed.

Geralt suddenly wished the thing _hadn’t_. Without warning, its white-gloved hands swept before him, and his jaw dropped open. Convinced he’d _completely_ lost his mind, Geralt’s eyes stretched wide as a full, vibrant rainbow unloaded from the thing’s mouth, beaming down to ultimately impact upon the ground directly before him. It disturbed nothing but Geralt’s nerves as it touched down, then in a snap withdrew back into the thing’s mouth, leaving behind a somehow even more puzzling object: a little bright green ball, no larger than a square foot or so, covered in yellow bumps.

Geralt frowned, unable to form a single frustrated curse nor tear his eyes away for a solid few moments.

“We are sure you will fail.”

“Wait, wha—?!” Geralt began, snapped out of his stupor with a fresh spark of rage.

“Good bye,” the thing interrupted. Without another wasted moment, he flattened his arms out to his sides and then, just as jarringly gracefully as he’d arrived, lifted into the air and floated away, proud and silent and majestic.

Geralt was left speechless. Every time his brain tried to process what the hell had just happened to him, the incongruence enraged him, and he found himself circling back to where he’d begun. (Which, for the record, was absolutely nowhere.) When he’d spaced out for the fifth time, he quit altogether, violently shoving his sword back in its sheath and whirling back around towards Roach. “This is ridiculous!” he muttered under his breath.

Unfortunately, after not two steps he blinked, and there the ball was - not where he’d left it, but laying in wait beside Roach’s hooves. In that, it was painfully clear he would not be escaping the peculiar little ball, nor its nonsensical bestower, and his entire being deflated.

“Fuck.”


	4. Roll A Star For Your Witcher

— ▣◕⬯◕▣ ▣╼◠╼▣◞ ⬟ —

Geralt didn’t make much progress over the next hour. Oh, he’d _tried_ , but the results of his efforts could hardly be deemed any form of success.

He’d started his attempts, as he usually did, with a swift and hefty application of polished, sharpened steel. It was a simple enough plan: if he couldn’t get rid of the little ball from hell, he’d _exterminate_ it. Certainly, there was nothing about the ball itself which would indicate any kind of resistance to stabbing, slicing, or chopping - in fact, it looked soft and bouncy, which one would _think_ would lend itself quite well to all three of those things. If not, the logical result would be for the strike to chuck the thing far off into the distance, which would have been just fine for Geralt’s purposes.

Assuming _anything_ about the yellow-and-green fucker adhered to anything “logical” was his first mistake, particularly in the wake of what had brought it into being.

And so now Geralt sat upon a convenient rock beside the road, leaning forward upon his knees, hands gripping each other in tight venting of the frustrations echoed upon his pursed lips and in his boiling eyes. There before him the little ball sat, small and quaint and unassuming, with a beautiful, polished sword gleaming in the late morning sun from where it’d stuck against the ball’s bumpy side.

 _Maybe I hadn’t struck it right?_ he thought, mostly out of desperation. Problem there was he only had one more sword, and if he failed again he risked losing it to the rapacious ball. Signs, perhaps? His eyes narrowed upon the ball. _It doesn’t look flammable, and I don’t think I want to test if fire sticks to it the same as steel. Yrden, on the other hand…_

A wild, maniacal grin sliced through his lips. If he could trap the wretched thing in place, and _then_ run away… that might be just the thing he needed to escape this nightmare scenario. He got back to his feet, cracked his knuckles, and strode confidently back towards the road where the ball and Roach still patiently awaited.

There was just… _one_ more little problem…

“Toss a coin to your Witcher, O’ Valley of Plenty!”

Wild eyes turned to the horizon, filled with alarm. “Damn it, Jaskier!” Geralt cursed through his teeth, breaking into a full dash towards the ball. _Fuck it, I’ll deal with this later!_ he decided, yanking his sword - and, in turn, the little ball - off the road. He whirled and bolted back to the rock, frantically glanced between it and his sword, then drew his weapon high and brought it crashing back down upon the ground, what length of his blade unimpeded by the stuck ball sinking deliciously down into the ground.

“O’ Valley of Plenty, O’—Geralt?”

Geralt abruptly stood and spun around, stiff-straight as if he _hadn’t_ just been bent over a large rock. Jaskier and his enlisted chauffeur - today, a hardy, middle-aged woman whose tall baskets stuffed full of vegetables nearly buried Jaskier in her cart. Both started at him with mild blushes, and from the strained look upon Geralt’s face Jaskier immediately knew something was wrong. With a sudden sense of urgency, Jaskier squirmed to free himself of the woman’s produce, hoisting himself to his feet and clamoring precariously through the baskets to the cart’s edge. “Geralt!” he called again as he went. “There you are! Is, um. Is everything… alright?”

“Fine!” Geralt shortly affirmed. As much to his own surprise as Jaskier’s, he reached up as Jaskier reached the cart’s edge, wrapped his arms about the bard’s narrow waist, and hauled him up and out of the cart. “Thank you, kind woman!” he hurriedly thanked, setting Jaskier upon the road and shooing her off with a frantic wave. “I’ll take it from here! You can go now! Thank you!”

“Come now, Geralt!” Jaskier chortled, glancing between him and the woman in equal parts embarrassment and disbelief. “Surely there’s no need to be so callous?”

The woman parted her lips to say something, but Geralt cut her off with a sharp, growling snarl. “Good! Bye!” At that, she scowled at him, muttered some obscenity or other under her breath, and flicked her horse’s reins to resume her journey.

“ _Geralt_!” Jaskier pleaded under his breath, then quickly turned to wave after the departing woman. “Good bye! A thousand thanks for your kindness! I shall make known your charity far and wide!” Only Geralt caught the woman’s resulting muttering, thanks to his enhanced hearing, but Jaskier saw her sharp, rude gesture well enough just before she and her cart disappeared down the far side of the hill. Jaskier sighed, then turned his exasperation upon Geralt. “I know you’re not the biggest fan of social niceties and platitudes, but—”

“Tell me about the caped giant.”

Jaskier stared at him a moment, then frowned. “I’m sorry, what?”

Geralt shifted impatiently, folding his arms firmly across his broad chest and fixing Jaskier with a glare. “You heard me. Tell me about the caped giant!”

“Yeah, I _heard_ you,” Jaskier mumbled, brain still working overtime to catch up, “I’m just not entirely certain I understand you. Which, granted, wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened, but together with your eager seizing of my person - not a complaint, by the way! - and the borderline unhinged look in your eye, beside of course the peculiarity of the request itself—”

Geralt’s hands collapsed upon Jaskier’s arms, gripping tight. His yellow eyes stretched somehow wider than before, and Jaskier truly feared Geralt’s craze might hop over and infect him as well. “I know you are a learned man, Jaskier!” he roared. “You’re thoroughly versed on culture, on all the continent’s stories.”

Jaskier blinked in surprise. He might have thanked Geralt had he not felt distinctly threatened.

“So, tell me about—”

“There _isn’t_ one!” Jaskier finally dared to interrupt, planting his hands firmly upon Geralt’s shoulders. Worry softened his expression as he searched his friend’s face for some clue as to what addled him. “Geralt, what is going on? Who told you about a—?”

“I _saw_ it, Jaskier,” he interrupted back, disbelief painted through his voice at his own words. “It took the form of a man taller than any castle, maybe any mountain, and it wore an equally expansive cape.”

For a moment, Jaskier simply stared at him in silence. He considered, very carefully, exactly what Geralt had said… then started looking around in a desperate survey of their surroundings.

“What are you looking for?” Geralt sighed, finally releasing the bard so his arms could hang by his sides in defeat. He watched helplessly as Jaskier immediately approached Roach and inspected her as well. She was well used to their odd dynamic by now and barely paid him any mind, continuing to idly stare off into the distance. Geralt, on the other hand, remained quite protective of who he was constantly reminded was his _dearest_ travelling companion, and so turned upon him a disgruntled snarl. “Leave her alone, Jaskier!”

“I’m inspecting for toxins,” Jaskier announced. “There is absolutely _no_ way you could have come up with all that on your own. Either this is some kind of desperate, poorly-thought-out ploy to try and get rid of me again, or you’re high.”

“Damn it, Jaskier, I’m not making it up!” Geralt bellowed. He whirled and stormed over to the rock. Clearly, the only way he’d get anywhere with Jaskier was if he provided cold, hard evidence. Maybe he’d snatch the bard’s precious lute and stick it right alongside his sword - _that’d_ surely teach Jaskier to—

Geralt froze. For a moment, his heart lifted with hope… then sank in despairing dread.

The little green ball was gone.

Jaskier clapped his hands together, mouth pressed to his fingertips. His eyes fixed upon Geralt, bent over the rock with his ass on full display, with perhaps eighty percent concern and twenty percent focused restraint. He drew in a deep, steadying breath, worked out which words to use, then finally sighed, “Geralt. We’ve been through a lot together, you and I. I like to think it’s been an overall positive experience. Not without its low points, granted - but then again, no relationship—”

A terrified shriek ripped through the air. Jaskier’s eyes whipped in its direction, and in horror he declared, “Madame Marielle! That’s the kind woman who—” He stopped short in his explanation when he realized the person he was explaining to was quite abruptly missing. “Geralt?!” he cried, looking about in a frenzy before spotting the Witcher further down the road, having already broken into a heart-pounding sprint. “HORSE?!” Jaskier screamed after him, throwing his hands back towards Roach.

But it was already much too late for that, he supposed. Roach stepped lackadaisically up to his side, nudged his shoulder, and offered a short huff. He sighed, lovingly stroking her long nose and muttering, “Sorry, girl. I try to look after him, you know. I really do!” In grateful acceptance of the horse’s offer, he made his way around to her side, slid his lute into one of her pack hitches, and with great effort hoisted his way up upon her back. It took some time before he finally got his foot to swing far enough to hook over to the other side, but he managed it, hauling his body the rest of the way with both arms until at last he got both feet securely slipped into both stirrups.

From atop Roach’s back, it wasn’t hard to see why Geralt was in such a hurry. From his new vantage point, Jaskier could see well beyond the hill’s descent, where the road dipped into a small valley. The base of that valley held all the commotion, though Jaskier had to squint to make much out of it. There was a lot of movement… _a lot_. A figure - Madame Marielle, he presumed - scurried back and forth around a spattering of color. It seemed something had crashed into her cart? Obliterated it, apparently, as he could see a bunch of wood planks strewn across the road, though there didn’t seem to be as many as he’d have thought. And only… one, two, three wheels, he counted. And he could have sworn she should’ve had more vegetables than what he could see, though he supposed he _was_ quite far away…

But, then, his eyes fell on what he now realized must have been the very thing that’d put Geralt in his current state. To his astonishment, a cluster of _things_ was rolling along the hills, leaving a disturbing trail of literally nothing. Even at his distance, Jaskier could see vegetables, wood, even some larger rocks _attach_ themselves to the bizarre mound as it rolled by. His eyes widened in alarm, and he flicked Roach’s reins to entice her into an immediate gallop. _I have to help!!!_

Not that he had the foggiest idea _how_ to help. He was still debating the matter as Roach sped past Geralt, the Witcher staring at them in utter betrayal. “GET OFF MY HORSE!!!”

Jaskier twisted around upon Roach’s saddle to offer an insincere shrug. “I tried to tell you!” he insisted. “But, don’t worry! I’ll help you stop that… thing… whatever it is… !”

This brought even more alarm to Geralt’s already wild eyes. “Jaskier, _no_!” he tried to warn, but the bard lacked his super-human hearing and was already well on his way towards the rampant, rolling ball.

Jaskier fixed his eyes upon the thing, an idea at last sparking in his mind. _Aha!_ he thought in total glee. _Rolling! All I have to do is stop the rolling! That should be easy enough! If I can just…_ He leaned forward and stroked the side of Roach’s neck as they drew close. “Beautiful, dear! This is plenty close enough. I’m quite certain Geralt would skewer me if I put you in harm’s way - and not in any manner I’d like, either!”

She came to a stop a few yards away from the crux of the commotion, allowing Jaskier to swing his leg around and off her back and half-hop, half-fall down to the ground in the world’s least graceful dismount. He recovered well enough though, brushing himself off and setting his sights upon his spherical foe. By now, with everything it’d picked up, it’d swelled to just shorter than a full-grown man’s height. Most of that, he suspected, came from the shattered pieces of Madame Marielle’s cart, but the bright, popping colors of her produce decorated the lump in a way that would’ve been beautiful if the situation weren’t so dire. He grinned, exuding full confidence, and rolled up his sleeves. Now was his chance to show Geralt just how helpful and worthwhile a travelling companion he really was!

Eager to prove himself, Jaskier ran out upon the field, estimating the ball’s trajectory and making sure to place himself directly in its path. As its momentum sent it rolling his way, he drew in a deep breath, gathering his strength - strength he figured he honestly really didn’t need, judging by the ball’s size and contents, but he was nothing if not _a showman_ and simply couldn’t help but make things just a _little_ dramatic.

And so it was that the ball drew near. Jaskier lowered his stance, nice and sturdy, and threw out his hands.

Geralt arrived on the scene just a _hair_ too late, yelling as he approached, “Jaskier, move out of the way!!!”

But his warning went unyielded. The ball descended upon Jaskier. Jaskier’s hands collided with the surface. And, for a moment, to his own surprise as much as Geralt’s, it worked! The ball slowed, and even seemed to stop… but, Jaskier’s feet began to slip, and to his surprise the ball continued to push against him, and then he was moving backward, and his eyes grew wide with equal parts surprise and terror but though he tried to move aside his hands _would not budge_ and then—

“Geralt! _Geralt!!!_ ” Jaskier shrieked as he went down.

At last, Geralt arrived, leaping in alongside the ball and throwing his hands out to stop it. His strength proved enough, soon overpowering the ball and easing it back the way it came. He rolled it off with troubling ease, aggravated by the discovery that _his_ hands weren’t sticking at all to the bizarre object’s amalgam of trinkets, and in moments Jaskier resurfaced…

…laying fully _against_ the ball.

Jaskier’s face glared in Geralt’s direction, the rest of him wrapping flatly against the ball and completely paralyzed. Well… save for his mouth, of course. He took a deep, steadying breath then, obviously struggling to keep his emotions at bay and his tone even, asked in uncharacteristic simplicity, “Geralt. What. Is going on.”

Jaskier joined the katamari.


	5. Sparkly Purple Goose

— ▣◉皿◉▣ ▣◕⬯◕▣ ▣╼◠╼▣◞ ⬟ —

“How long?”

“Hmm, let’s see…” Jaskier craned his neck, squinting his eyes into the sun while he tried to get a better sense of things. “I’d wager there’s… ten, fifteen rabid hounds? Volume of the manic shrieking suggests maybe half the village, when you account for the wood, stone, and plantlife likely muffling them all. Gods know how we’ve not been—”

“That’s not what I meant!” Yennefer snapped, stretching her head down to try and glare at the chatty bard. A difficult task, that - her foot had stuck about level with his thighs, and as the… thing… they were attached to took off, the rest of her followed suit, curling back along its round surface. (As “round” as a giant bundle of random shit could be, anyway.) From her vantage point, she could really only tell where Jaskier laid by the lute laying between them - and thank the gods for that! This predicament was bad enough without having to suffer his perpetual plucking to boot. “How long has Geralt had this… what did you call it?”

“I didn’t,” he unhelpfully replied, though he was no less chipper about it. “Geralt didn’t. Just kept ranting about a caped giant and needing to ‘fix’ something.”

“Odd request,” she mused. “Folk don’t often hire witchers for ‘fixing’ things.”

Jaskier’s face twisted. “Mmm… Less ‘hire,’ more like ‘forced,’ I think.”

The notion alone was enough to make Yennefer scoff. “I’d like to meet the man who could ‘force’ a witcher to do _anything_. Anyway, when was that?”

“He came straight here after I went and stuck myself,” Jaskier sighed, and Yennefer swore she heard a hint of swooning in his voice. “He was _very_ worried, you know!”

“I would be too if I found myself incapable of discarding you,” she sneered in return.

He couldn’t keep the smugness from his voice. “You mean like you are now?”

“Be thankful I can’t move my arms!” she snapped.

“Oh, don’t worry, I am!” Jaskier swiftly assured. “And also that I’m face-down on this thing. I can’t imagine rolling around face-out to be terribly pleasant.”

“It’s not,” came her bitter glower. She turned her eyes to the horizon and sighed, catching a small, black speck crest the nearest hill and come scurrying along the trail of crushed grass the ball had left in its wake. “Finally. Soon as Geralt gets here, I’ll have him cut me loose, and you two idiots can go sort this mess out.”

Jaskier sighed and shook his head. “Oh, _this_ should be good,” he muttered, knowing full well from personal experience precisely how that conversation would transpire.

When at last Roach’s hoofsteps reached Jaskier’s ears, he turned his head and caught the defeated look gradually drenching Geralt’s expression the closer he drew. He absent-mindedly ushered Roach to a stop and easily dismounted, his eyes glued to the large mass towering before him. At once, Yennefer launched into her furious demands - Geralt acknowledged her with a muted, “Hmm,” then abruptly turned and briskly began his march around his steadily-escalating problem.

“Geralt!” Yennefer fumed. “Are you even listening?!”

He blinked as he rounded the corner, eyes snapping upon her for a fleeting moment before returning to their worrying. “Hmm? Yes. What?”

She glared at him. Struggling to contain her rage, she took a deep breath, then slowly spoke, making sure to clearly enunciate each word. “I am stuck to this ball. I’ve got rotting vegetation to one side, and your damned _bard_ to the other. The peasants screaming in my ears are making my head split. It’s a damned miracle I haven’t emptied my stomach after all that cursed rolling! This is ridiculous. So take out your sword and cut me _down_ already!”

“Ah,” he grunted, still looking elsewhere. Then he was off again, offering only a curt, “Can’t.”

“What do you mean, ‘can’t’?!” she damn near shrieked.

Jaskier smirked. “Called it.”

“Quiet, bard,” Yennefer snapped at him before turning her head to search for Geralt. “They’re just clothes! I can replace them with hardly a—”

“ _Can’t_!” Geralt’s head suddenly popped back into view, and this time Yennefer could see a madness just as if not _more_ intense than the day he’d come to her with a djinn’s curse. Now, however, it was clear the cause was no mere lack of sleep, or at least not _just_ that. How long had Geralt been a witcher? For how many _decades_ had he wielded his weapons, signs, and potions with ease, dispatching all manner of beasts and demons and even the occasional hoard as thoughtlessly as normal men breathed? Yet here he stood facing a challenge that cared for _none_ of that, which would neither bend nor break beneath any of his usual tactics. Here stood a man thrown completely out of his element, one who was so used to at least knowing how to _figure out_ a problem now rendered utterly useless.

And all of that built-up frustration? The steadily billowing rage and helplessness and confusion and self-loathing? Yennefer had _always_ been an expert at drawing it out from its deepest hovels.

“Weren’t you listening? _Nothing_ I do works with this damned thing! If I _could_ cut you down, do you not think I’d have done that with Jaskier?! Why the _fuck_ do you think I came to your doorstep begging for help?!”

Yennefer scowled back at him, hardly one to be pushed over by a silly tirade - fully confined to a bizarre object of mass acquisition or not. “Thought you just wanted to see me,” she cooly mused. “I know how much you _love_ my breasts.”

“Yes, yes, they’re quite lovely,” Jaskier piped up, squirming to try and get a better view of them both from his rather inconvenient vantage point. “Unfortunately, they’re not of much use to us now, after they were so unwilling to offer any assistance before. Good to see their sense of self-preservation remains intact, but I don’t suppose they have any _useful_ propositions for us?”

Yennefer passed him an unamused glare, then turned back to Geralt - or, rather, the vacant spot on the ground that _used_ to be Geralt, who’d apparently returned to his anxious circling. “Let’s start from the beginning,” she called, writhing in place to try and track him. “The man who hired you—”

“Attacked me.”

“Attack—?! Okay, fine, whatever. ‘Attacked’ you. Did he tell you his name?”

“No,” Geralt grumbled, rounding back into view. “Just kept referring to ‘We.’”

“‘We’? So, like an organization? Did he wear any crests or defining colors?”

Geralt stared at her. On top of his sleep-deprived mental deterioration, his expression displayed the helplessness of a man that knew any way he went about answering her question would not be believed. “His belt buckle showed a face that looked like a disgruntled cat man.”

Yennefer stared back. “…So, the cat school of witchers, perhaps?”

He somehow managed to look even _more_ defeated. “And he wore a crown, ruff, and cape.”

“He’s… a king? I don’t recall any kingdoms that use a—”

“And two cylinders.” In the dead silence that followed, Geralt rose his open hands to either side of his head. “Sprouting from his head. Twice his shoulder width.”

Yennefer stared at him. To her side, Jaskier struggled to stifle his snickering - he’d heard all of this before, and was rather enjoying her stupor.

“Painted like stained glass.”

“This is absurd!” Yennefer snapped. “Even when I’m trying to help, you two are sitting here trying to make a fool of me!”

“I’m telling the _truth_ , Yenn,” Geralt exasperatedly groaned.

“I can’t believe this,” she muttered to herself, then continued, “Fine, I’ll play along - but _only_ because I want to be rid of this ridiculous thing. You haven’t mentioned the colors. What were they?”

“Blue,” Geralt sighed, trying to make _something_ sound at least remotely normal. “And purple. With golden accessories.”

“Well, I can’t think of any kingdoms that fly purple,” Yennefer puzzled aloud, though it honestly felt more like stretching as much of the truth as she could manage rather than any actual puzzling. “Blue and gold, on the other hand… Perhaps the ‘cat man’ was really a shoddy lion? Cintra’s colors—”

“DESTINY!” Geralt yelled, eyes suddenly wide, and without explanation bolted out of view again.

“What?!” Yennefer cried, slinging her incredulous look around to Jaskier in demand for an explanation.

Jaskier’s face has gone pale. “He’s got a child surprise,” his voice nearly wept, “in Cintra. Queen Calanthe’s granddaughter.”

“That’s halfway across the continent!” Yennefer shrieked, suddenly realizing what Geralt was starting to do. “GERALT—!”

But it was too late, as they both soon discovered when the sky tilted around them and the ground suddenly came rushing along their fronts. They closed their mouths _just_ in time to avoid swallowing grass and dirt - though, upon closer inspection and to their mutual relief it seemed part of their prison’s bizarre qualities included some kind of barrier that kept them from being smashed into the ground. Probably the same magic that kept making everything stick to its surface.

“Close your eyes!” Yennefer heard Jaskier scream over the world’s rotational rushing. “Helps with the equilibrium!”

Yennefer wasn’t so sure - but Jaskier was doing it, and he had a _touch_ more experience being confined to this blasted thing. She shut her eyes tight and braced herself for the long and likely thoroughly sickening journey ahead of them.


	6. Bright Shining Destiny

— ▣◹△◸▣ ▣╹▴╹▣ ▣◉皿◉▣ ▣◕⬯◕▣ ▣╼◠╼▣◞ ⬟ —

Terror ripped through the city’s streets. Screams filled the air. People of every shape and size ran in a chaotic frenzy not unlike a toppled anthill. Whole buildings collapsed, leaving wide trails of wreckage winding back and forth across the kingdom. Nothing was spared: children evoked no mercy, walls imposed no barrier, the palace and dominion of its crown wielded no influence against the giant mass destroying their home.

Well, not destroying, exactly. More like consuming. And everything it consumed only added to its power.

As it traversed the city, the dwindling brave souls desperately trying to stand against it glimpsed a sole figure at its base. Through their own cloud of fear, they managed to identify the figure as a white-haired, black-clad man, and furthermore saw that this person was neither fighting off the ball nor bowing to it. Instead, to their astonishment, he appeared to be _directing_ it! Equal parts rage and awe wracked their hearts as one of their pointlessly armored numbers turned and fled into the castle. He bounded down the halls and up the stairs, winding expertly through the building until at last he burst into the room where his queen watched the wreckage through her window, the mage beside her slinging out every spell he could think of that might prove of even remote aid.

She whirled to face him, eyes wild with fury. The trembling child behind her stepped closer, frail hands clinging to her grandmother’s gold-laced garb. The mage fired another spell towards the city’s assailant, his effort grunting through grit teeth - he hadn’t the time to regard the captain, and anyway already knew what grave knews he was about to relay.

“Your Majesty,” he gasped between panicked breaths, “it’s him. It’s Geralt of Rivia!”

“What is that imbecile doing?!” she roared, snarling back out their window. “He’s slaughtering my entire kingdom!”

“If I may, Your Majesty?” the mage spoke up, an overwhelming sense of defeat convincing him to steal a moment’s rest from his casting. “He doesn’t appear to be actually ‘killing’ _any_ of them.”

“What?!” She narrowed her gaze, scouring the rolling mass as best she could. She couldn’t see Geralt, obscured as the base of the thing was by the rubble of her once-great city, but all along the ball’s surface whole sections of buildings stuck, including complete rooftops and flattened market stalls and lengths of wall. Sure enough, if she squinted, squeezed in amid the patches of city were tiny, wriggling forms: men, women, and children of every social caste… and even, to her shock and intrigue, a handful of ghouls and the stray, flailing arms of a kikimore.

Stunned, she could not help but stare at the passing clump of dismantled city before finally shaking herself out of it. “This is absurd!” she declared, storming away from the window and marching towards the door. “Come, Cirilla!”

“M-Me?!” the young girl squeaked, though she dared not defy her grandmother. Hurrying after the heavily armored woman, she questioned, “Whatever for? This hardly seems the time for a political lesson?”

“On the contrary,” the queen glowered, bounding through the palace’s grand halls on a warpath, “this is _precisely_ the time. I’d hoped we’d never have this particular lesson at all - that fool promised as much - but it seems we’ve evaded Destiny long enough. It’s time to tell you of our world’s greatest curse: the Law of Surprise.”

By the time the pair burst out onto the streets of Cintra, hardly anything was even _left_ of Cintra. The Witcher and his giant, consumptive mass flew by with neither remorse nor reprieve. The Lioness of Cintra stopped him in his tracks with a mighty roar. “GERALT!”

His feet planted in the ground. The ball continued rolling off, but he didn’t seem to care. Instead, as he spun to face them, his piercingly brilliant eyes focused wholly upon the queen and her granddaughter. Wordlessly, he turned and marched towards them, his manner somehow more and more aggressive the closer he drew.

Sword drawn and clutched tight, Queen Calanthe refused to shy away from him. “You cursed, rabid dog!” she spat. “What the hell have you done to my city?!”

Not until he was only a yard or so away did Geralt at last stop. His eyes snapped down to Cirilla, who in spite of herself squeaked from the suddenness of his attention and reflexively inched behind her grandmother. Up close, they saw his face was dark and sullen, with heavy bags formed beneath his bloodshot eyes. His hair was unkempt, and his face dirty, and—

Queen Calanthe frowned. Weren’t witchers supposed to have two swords? Where was—

“Child,” Geralt abruptly grunted, with not a shred of the finesse or decorum he’d shown when first he’d graced Cintra’s court.

“I fucking _know_ that, depraved hound!” the Queen bit back. “You _swore_ you would never return to this place!”

A crazed sneer wrinkled Geralt’s face. “Destiny.”

“Don’t you utter that blasted—”

Geralt turned, and just like that he was marching off once more.

“Geralt!” she shrieked. “Foul oaf… Get _back_ here! Where the _fuck_ are you going?!”

But he would lend her not one more word, and moments later he disappeared around the remnants of a half-dismantled tower.

Cirilla swallowed, then nervously emerged from behind her grandmother. “Th… _That’s_ him, Grandmother?” she whimpered. “That’s the man who’s claimed me?”

“I’m afraid so, my dear,” Queen Calanthe replied, her free hand finding Cirilla’s head to anxiously clutch it against herself. “But he is not the man I once knew. Surely, there must be some way out of this…”

The young girl squinted her eyes, peering through the settling dust of her ruined city. “Well, he left, didn’t he? Perhaps… Perhaps that means he’s forfeiting his claim?”

Queen Calanthe narrowed her gaze. She wasn’t so sure - less so when the ground began to shudder beneath them. Instinctively, she stepped in front of Cirilla, one arm spread defensively across her granddaughter while the other raised her sword, steady and true. The rumbling swelled, rocks at their feet starting to bounce violently atop what remained of the street. Thunderous sound followed suit, and then a massive shadow that blocked out the sun.

“Run, Cirilla!” Queen Calanthe screamed, shoving her granddaughter away.

“Grandmother!” Cirilla cried in return, her feet fumbling their way across the uprooted stonework.

Neither Queen Calanthe’s valiant defence nor Princess Cirilla’s desperate retreat found the helpless pair victorious.

Queen Calanthe and Princess Cirilla joined the katamari.


	7. Twinkling Clump of Souls

— ▣▚▞▣ ▣◹△◸▣ ▣╹▴╹▣ ▣◉皿◉▣ ▣◕⬯◕▣ ▣╼◠╼▣◞ ⬟ —

“Oh my god. Oooohhhhh my god.”

“I’m going to be sick.”

“Well, do it in the _other_ direction, hag. We are in the presence of royalty!”

“Lovely, because I haven’t had enough of _that_ in my life.”

“The Lioness of Cintra!”

“Great.”

“And… Oh! You… ? Are you really her? You _are_ , aren’t you?”

“Is she _who_ , you insufferable run-on sentence?!”

“Princess Cirilla! Daughter to the late Pavetta and Duny of Cintra, granddaughter to—”

“Oh will you _shut. Up!_ ” the Lioness finally roared, her irritation at last outweighing her humiliation. “How is it the Witcher has _still_ yet to get rid of you?!”

“I asked him as much the last time I took him to bed,” Yennefer snickered.

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure I was all the two of you could talk about whilst undoing your knickers. Tell me, what _did_ he say about me? I’m curious. Really.”

“Something about pie?”

“Liar!” he gasped. “That hurts, and you know it.”

As Jaskier and Yennefer bickered, Geralt paced, thoroughly bewildering Queen Calanthe and the young Cirilla with his apparent disregard for them, his giant ball, and the city he’d single-handedly leveled with it. Beside him, Mousesack stood, having descended the palace once he’d seen the ball come to a stop. Unfortunately, while he’d hoped the Queen had managed to reach an accord with the witcher, this wasn’t _quite_ the conclusion he’d had in mind. He rubbed his beard and surveyed the ball up and down, up and down with a furrowed brow. What in the gods’ names even _was_ this thing? He turned a bewildered gesture to Geralt.

Geralt offered only a glare, but it was enough. In that single look, Mousesack knew the man was at his wits’ end, that he was struggling to figure out why something wasn’t working even when he hadn’t the foggiest idea why it would have worked in the first place.

Mousesack troubledly looked back at the giant mass, as tall and wide as any castle. His eyes focused on Cirilla, holding still in her silent terror. “We can’t just leave them up there,” he finally sighed aloud.

“Really?” Geralt sarcastically growled at him. “You sure? I think I prefer ‘em like this.”

The mage took the retort with an unamused look, then began circling the impressive mass Geralt had accumulated, carefully surveying as much of it as he could as he walked. He looked for trends, patterns… any tiniest clue what might be holding the eclectic variety of objects and creatures together. “Gods above, Geralt… Is there anything you _didn't_ pick up along your journey?” He rounded the far end of the ball, then suddenly leapt back, narrowly dodging the grasping swipe of a stray water hag arm. Piles of stone muffled its furious wail, the arm wildly flailing through a hole in the rubble, searching for purchase. Suddenly much more cognizant of his distance from the mass, Mousesack hurried the rest of the way around until Geralt came back into view. “You know you’re meant to _kill_ the monsters, right?”

“What’s it _matter_ if they don’t—” Geralt began to counter, but dangerous inspiration brightened his eyes and cut short his words. As the idea solidified in his mind, he slowly rose a finger, then began to shake it towards the mage. “That’s it… That’s _it_ , Mousesack!”

High above them, Jaskier let out a dread-filled moan. “Oh, gods, no…!”

“Damn it, Mousesack!” Yennefer yelled, her attempts to free herself renewed. “You just _had_ to open your stupid mouth!”

Queen Calanthe bit back in defense of her mage. “Watch your tongue! Far as I can tell, Mousesack’s the only one who’s actually trying to _help_!”

“Yes, well, _Your Majesty_ ,” Yennefer sarcastically drolled, “that’s only because the _rest_ of us know better.”

“Why’s that?” a tiny voice squeaked up from beside the queen. “Is something bad going to happen?”

Jaskier shook his head with pity. “Oh, you sweet, precious child. I’m so sorry for what you’re about to endure. My tips: keep your mouth closed, and when things get stuck around you try and work them under your limbs.” His hand wobbled where it was stuck beside him, gesturing as best it could between himself and Yennefer. “That’s how we’ve managed to stay on top, you see.”

“What?” Cirilla gasped, squirming to try and look at her grandmother. “Stay on top of what? What’s—?!”

Cirilla got her answer far sooner than she’d thought, and in a far worse manner than she’d hoped. Jaskier’s advice returned to her just before her face met the ground. She clamped her mouth shut tight as the ball trapping her, her grandmother, and the entirety of their city rolled along the ground, joining the cacophony of panicked screams only after the ground had passed and she began arcing towards the sky. Round and round and round they went, orbiting with surprising smoothness, periodically sweeping past Geralt and, trailing just a bit behind him, Mousesack. The former ran with both arms outstretched and hands pressed against the ball, while the latter struggled to keep up as best he could in his long and cumbersome robes. They engaged each other with an exchange of yelled grievances and profanities, snippets of which the group of captives managed to catch with every orbit.

“Stop— …. —you going?”

“I’m— …. —the continent!”

“What does— …. —figure it out?”

“There’s only— …. —world’s monsters.”

“What? Geralt—?!”

“—ideas?!”

“Well, no— …. —with them?”

“—this damned ball!”

“Alright but— …. —all of them on that thing, all at once?”

“Where _else_ —?!”

“—those people you scooped—?”

“Yes.”

“—Calanthe and Princess—?”

“Yes!”

“—your bard and sorceress?”

“YES!”

That was about all the captives could catch before the rolling grew too swift and loud for them to grasp actual words. But though no one, likely not even the individual he spoke to, could hear him, Mousesack continued his valiant efforts to dissuade the over-exerted and under-rested witcher from continuing his tyrannical tumbling. “Geralt, stop! Let’s just stop and think about this for a moment!”

“I’ve _been_ thinking about this!” Geralt bellowed in return. “Do you have any idea what my life has been like since that damned giant burdened me with this insanity?!”

A part of Mousesack broke, staring helplessly at his friend. Running alongside Geralt, he could see the strain in every wrinkle across his face and strand of white hair whipping in the chaotic wind. Looking at him now, _really_ looking at him, he could see how worn and weary his current situation made him - and no wonder! Why, if he’d been made to run all across the continent, pushing around this giant—

It dawned on him. Mousesack gasped. “Geralt… Where is Roach?”

“Where do you THINK she is?!” he screamed. The sheer emotion in his voice showcased the full urgency of his desperation. More than any lover, more than any friend, Roach meant the world to Geralt. For her to be taken from him, her well-being threatened by some unknown entity…

“Surely there must be a way to summon the man who gave you this charge?” Mousesack postulated aloud, reinspired to help his friend and prevent him from literally consuming the world. “Perhaps if we gather the witches of Aretuza and the sorcerers of Ban Ard together—”

“Yes,” he gruffly interrupted. “Together.” The ball bounced slightly, and he reflexively shifted just in time to avoid the swarm of fresh drowners sweeping up along the ball’s surface.

Mousesack only narrowly avoided a drowner’s furious swipe. He still reeled from the suddenness, but nonetheless caught the ominous glint in Geralt’s eye. “Geralt?!” he cried, chasing after Geralt out of desperate self-preservation. “What are you thinking?”

Suddenly, Geralt took off around the still-rolling ball, but not before declaring the words Mousesack dreaded. “Realized I forgot one!”

Already, the ball’s momentum shifted. Mousesack’s eyes widened as the looming mass slowed, and could feel its attention focus upon him. He took advantage of its slow, lumbering form to continue running as fast as he could, though he knew deep in his heart there was no escaping the all-dominating sphere. “Stop this, Geralt! If you gather up every living thing in the continent, every person and creature and monster, there will be nothing left! No one to help you! You will be alone with your madness - and what will you do then?!”

But his friend was already too far gone. The grasping hands of Geralt’s prior victims nipped at the hem of his robes. “There is no madness!” the witcher screamed. “There is only rolling!”

Mousesack joined the katamari.

There’d be no more conversation after that. The final voice of reason now joined the wailing chorus of Geralt’s snowballing conquest, from which none of the captives could exactly offer even a single word to either him or each other. Apart from the sheer logistics of the matter, there was also the problem of the constant onslaught of plants, structures, wildlife, people, and monsters helplessly caught in Geralt’s ceaseless pursuit. For a while, Jaskier’s tips helped somewhat, the group keeping themselves at the surface by working new arrivals beneath them as best they could. Unfortunately, the larger the ball grew, the faster it rolled, and the more wreckage and helpless victims it scooped up along its terrible path. The furious screams of bound wraiths drowned out the panicked cries of their fleshy fellows, but soon even those were muffled beneath the piling of more and more and _more_ indiscriminate acquisition.

Whole townships stuck to the mass as it rolled by. Careening back and forth across fields, forests, marshes, every last malady got hoisted out from its hovel or plucked from its flight. The occasional fiend or golem saw the looming monstrosity and made the unfortunate decision to rush the apparent adversary, perhaps trying to knock it from its course. Inevitably, there’d be the tiniest bump - Geralt’s only indication anything had been there at all before it, too, went reeling up, around, and over as fresh additions to his bestial menagerie.

Geralt scaled up and down every mountainside, bounced through every lake, stampeded across every vale in desperate search of every mighty roar, every faintest squeak. No longer did he spare a thought for whether or not a particular target would satisfy the grey-skinned, purple-leotarded celestial who’d burdened him with this ambiguous task. No patience remained for retracing steps or second-guessing: he’d been given a singular ability, a singular _action_ , and he intended to wield that action to its fullest extent until he at last freed himself of this curse.

A streak of fiery-orange glinted along the edge of his sights. In a fit of fury, he whirled, hands expertly shifting along the side of his ball to alter its course. “No you _don’t_!” he bellowed, then poured every ounce of strength into chucking the ball towards the dragon that thought it’d found its chance to flee. As it beat its mighty wings, climbing higher and higher towards the sky, the giant orb of rolling doom bounded towards it. It rebounded off the side of the mountain, bounced a half-mile off the ground, and collided with its target. The helpless dragon released a final, defeated screech as the ball crashed back down upon the earth…

…and, at last, the world was quiet.

Geralt turned, gazing upon his handiwork. All across the land, as far as the eye could see, a pure and dominating silence blanketed the continent. There was no birdsong, no wild howling, no roars of confrontation. No tills struck the land, no carriages stumbled down the roads, no music sang in the breeze. Neither child’s play nor hunter’s strife nor lovers’ passion disturbed the quiet, though, indeed, there was no one and nothing left _to_ disturb.

Except for Geralt - and, his hawk-like sights belatedly realized, a single black mare standing in the middle of a nearby field, returning his gaze with burning red embers of its own.

The red of her eyes brightened with fiery rage. Even across this distance, he could feel Black Beauty’s free and wild spirit, pulsing upon the very wind. She held his gaze, knowing full well the spherical force that spared none. She challenged it, _dared_ it: only the Crones had ever managed to bind her and she was not about to let some mortal do the same, no matter how large his ball.

Geralt looked to the heavens. The clouds were serene and peaceful in the waning sun. No giant terror disturbed their pristine splendor.

He had yet to “fix it,” whatever “it” was.

The craze of his days-long pursuit narrowed upon the sole survivor of his conquest. The final obstacle… One last creature standing between him and his glorious peace. His lips pulled back into a fully-bared snarl. Madness pulled tight his features and pulsed through his every vein. He looked to where his amassed destruction had landed, then to Black Beauty, then suddenly broke into a mad dash, gearing up to throw all of his might into this final roll.

“One final conquest!” he bellowed, his isolation dismantling all sense of inhibition. “Then I shall at last be done with this!”

Bold as she was, Black Beauty was no fool, and would not allow him any advantage in this final chase. The minute he moved, so did she, turning and letting lose her hooves across the barren ground. Imbued with far more power than any mere horse could hope to obtain, she sped like a bolt of inky lightening through the field. Whole miles passed beneath her in mere minutes, and not a single bead of sweat would break along her hide.

But Geralt’s collection now challenged the very mountains for sovereignty of the skies, and at that size speed mattered little. Black Beauty’s hooves could run as fast as she liked, but they could take her nowhere that would not soon fall beneath the eclipsing doom trailing her. Eventually, there would simply be no place left for her to run, and even she would have to turn and face the same inevitability that had befallen the entire rest of the continent.

The thunderous rolling drowned out the world.

The sun disappeared behind its towering loom.

A collage of bodies, trees, and buildings consumed all sight.

Black Beauty joined the katamari.

For a second, the world held its breath. Geralt whirled, ready to release his frustration in a blood-curdling scream if he even still did not receive his due. That possibility almost seemed to be a reality until, at the very last moment, a burst of brilliant color exploded down upon the earth, piercing through the helpless clouds and drenching the horizon with a massive rainbow.

Once more, the strange, gargantuan man appeared, the rainbow fading after its King had been delivered. His arms were spread wide, hands pinched in a flamboyant flourish, hips twisted and legs crossed as though he’d been in the middle of some complicated dance move.

Geralt beheld him with nothing but cold rage. “The deed is—”

“Hmm,” this absurdity of a man interrupted. Apparently, absolutely nothing had changed in his socialization - not that Geralt had any business being surprised by such. “It’s quite ugly.”

Whether he knew better or not, Geralt was simply too exhausted for decorum or reasonable expectations. “Ugly?! _That’s_ what you have to say? What the fuck does it ma—”

“It’s very big though. And noisy. How appalling!”

Geralt clenched his fists and grit his teeth. “Is. It. _Done_?”

The man moved one hand to his chin. “We… don’t remember what we wanted. Was it this?”

“What the _fuck_ do you mean by—?!”

“Oh well!”

Before Geralt realized what was happening, the man’s mouth dropped open, and another rainbow shot down to shower upon the ball. As soon as the sparkling colors touched its surface, it rose, slowly enough at first for it to finally register in Geralt’s mind before zipping the rest of the way up to the man’s mouth just as Geralt threw out his hands.

Geralt’s eyes went wide. “Wait! What are you doing?! That’s—”

“It will make an acceptable star,” the man declared. “Good bye.”

“STOP!” Geralt yelled, but it was too late. Already, the humongous entity before him was shrinking back into the clouds. A minute later, he was gone without a trace: no man, no rainbows… no giant cluster of all the continent’s occupants.

Geralt was alone - this time, _truly_ alone. A broken man, he sank to his knees, then fell back upon the grass in total a lack of will.

“Fuck.”


	8. Starry-Eyed Wolf

— ▣╼◠╼▣ —

Vesemir rubbed the bridge of his nose. In all his decades upon decades upon decades of raising, training, and supporting Witchers, never had he experienced a case… _quite_ like this. His brow furrowed, trying to make sense of what he’d heard, but admittedly the effort was countered by the debate of whether any of it was even an honest testimony in the first place. He took a deep breath, quieting his emotions: now was a time for triage and solutions, and objective thinking seldom found itself aided by the likes of passion and conviction. When he felt himself both mentally and emotionally able, he wet his lips and at last asked, “A potion… that _he_ made… ?”

Jaskier pressed his lips together for the briefest moment before eagerly replying. “Yep. He made it. Before, um. You know. A battle. Well, skirmish, really - a single one of those…” He started looking between Vesemir and Yennefer for help, gesturing in tall strokes above his head with both hands. “You know, with the… ?”

“A fiend,” Yennefer grumpily muttered, the cross of her arms tightening in a failed bid to temper her rage.

“Right,” Jaskier replied with a snap of his fingers. “Fiend. That’s the one.”

With a barely-even sigh, Vesemir leaned forward and lifted a corner of the damp cloth covering Geralt’s face. Through the thin membranes of the man’s eyelids, Vesemir saw the erratic shifting of his eyes. “Still dreaming,” he muttered, then laid it back down and plucked a fresh cloth from a small pile neatly folded and stacked beside him. This he dipped into the bucket of cold water between his feet, setting about a muscle-memorized ritual of attempting to bring down Geralt’s fever.

“Oh!” Jaskier belatedly replied. “I could? Um?”

Vesemir shot him down with a harsh look, then continued with his inquiries. “I don’t imagine you have any idea what potion he took. Did you happen to catch a glimpse of it?”

“Yes, yes I did, in fact!” the bard almost giddily answered. His eagerness to be helpful got the better of all other concerns. “Let’s see… There was a red one, a blue one, and then one that had a bit of a purplish—”

“You said it was _one_!” Yennefer all but shrieked.

Jaskier jumped. “Ah! Oh, did… _Did_ I? Well, um,” he struggled, anxiously eyeing Vesemir for help. Unfortunately, much as the eldest Witcher opted for neutrality he was quite happy to let others act on the very emotions he suppressed. As a result, Jaskier got only a scrutinizing, raised brow, beneath which he squirmed. “I mean, _technically_ it was one potion in the end? You know, when he mixed it.” His eyes glanced furtively between them - it quickly grew painfully clear neither of them were letting him slip out of this one, so at last he admitted, “Mixed it… um… in his mouth…”

“I’m going to—”

“Ah-ah, Yennefer,” Vesemir coaxed, laying a hand on her forearm. “Lessons are best learned by the living.” With Geralt finally starting to relax under a fresh set of cold cloths, Vesemir settled back into his chair. “Let us be thankful Geralt only appears to be hallucinating, and that you happened to be near enough to find them and assist their escape from…”

As Vesemir trailed off, Jaskier noticed the man eyeing him, so he quickly reminded, “Ah, fiend. It was a fiend we’d encountered.”

Vesemir debated whether to challenge the point, then ultimately decided it didn’t really matter in the end. “…Right, the ‘fiend.’ Geralt’s body just needs some time to process the reagents coursing through him and he’ll be good as… well, as however he was this morning, anyway.”

“Right, and um…” Seeing Vesemir rise from his chair and head for the door, Jaskier stood in kind and moved to follow. “How… How long should that be? Exactly?”

With one foot across the threshold Vesemir stopped and delivered another pointed look at Jaskier. “You take first watch,” he answered, then nodded his head to the window. “If anything goes wrong, scream. Someone’ll hear you.”

“I… What?” Jaskier turned to Yennefer - surely she didn’t support that, did she? She was smirking at him. Of course she did. “Scream?” he asked, pointing to the window. “Just—?”

The door answered him with a loud _thunk!_ as Yennefer pulled it shut behind her, leaving Jaskier alone in the room with his hallucinating witcher.

“Oh, Geralt,” he sighed, resigning himself to a nearby chair and picking up his lute. “All the times I’ve dreamed of visiting the fabled Kaer Morhen… These weren’t _quite_ the circumstances I’d had in mind.”

He slung the strap of his instrument over his head. Delicately tested and adjusted his strings. Strummed a soft readying chord.

“Ah, well,” he sighed. “What’s a bard to do?”

What else?

“Na naaa, nana na na, naa na, na, na naa na, na naa, naaa…”


End file.
